‘Mummy doesn’t like carnations,’ the nine year old told him coldly, her information holding a world of meaning as she correctly assessed that the man at the front door was a suitor.

She was right, and though he persevered on that occasion, he never gave me carnations again. It’s a shame about carnations, but at the time I could only see the sad, scentless etoliated versions wrapped in cheap cellophane and sold on garage fore-courts. They symbolised the capitalism and commercialism that exploits and corrupts even beauty.

The real thing has a big, heavy deliciously clove- scented head, with a tangle of frilly petals, and was originally used by the Romans for wreaths and garlands, known in Latin as corona. When these flowers first came to England with the legionaries nearly 2000 years ago, their name was coronation, until the word evolved into carnation.

I was just as dismissive about daffodils, when I was presented with a bouquet – or rather some bouquets – which I rather regret now. In my salad days when I was a twenty two year old in the army, and stationed outside a beautiful village in Shakespeare country, I was the only girl in an all male officers’ mess. I had my own little cottage where I lived with the mongrel I’d rescued and dignified by calling him Rupert.

Late one night there was a loud knocking, so I dragged myself from deep sleep, hurried on my pink dressing gown, and stumbled to the door. Grouped there were all the young officers who had gone to watch a rugby match at Twickenham. It had taken them many hours to get back here, judging by the time – two o’ clock in the morning – and one of the things which had delayed them, apart from merrymaking at every pub on the way back, was that they had also stopped at every roundabout, it seemed, between my cottage and London.

Each roundabout they had stripped of its spring flowers, and here at my door was the result of their labours. Each young man was wearing a proud grin and holding a big bunch of golden daffodils in the moonlight. Sadly, I was not amused, deeply disapproved, and was more intent on getting them to go away, and stopping Rupert from barking and waking senior officers slumbering nearby, than in being grateful for their generosity at the expense of every town council between here and London!

So I did know how my three year old grand- daughter felt when I gave her a disappointing bunch of flowers. I’d chosen a big blowsy thank you bouquet for her mother, and had as much pleasure in choosing the flowers as my daughter- in –law had in receiving them. My grand-daughter was also ravished by them, so I decided to walk back to the shop through the bitter Melbourne winter’s day and get her the little bunch of flowers I’d refrained from getting on the first visit.

I brought home a posy of exquisite purple violets, the perfect symbol, I thought, for my exquisite flower-like little grand-daughter. She took one look at the dainty flowers and burst into indignant tears, and then threw an uninhibited tantrum in which she expressed her un-utterable disappointment at not having a big grown-up bunch of flowers like her mother’s. Mortified, I could see her point.

Two years later a small posy of white rosebuds with one word ‘Mummy’ on Princess Diana’s coffin reduced half a world to tears.

The symbolism of flowers is far more profound that the sentimental Victorian descriptions of the language of flowers. The flaming red poppy, whose name is now synonymous with the word Flanders, is a poignant reminder still, of every young man who died in the terrible war that my grandmother called The Great War.

And in the next terrible war flowers softened another battlefield. I remember my father telling me how the hills of Tunisia were smothered in glorious spring flowers as his tank regiment fought their way to join up with Montgomery’s army.

Bruce Chatwin painted an unforgettable image of flowers in that same war, in his book ‘The Songlines’. On the first page he wrote of a Cossack from a village near Rostov on Don, who was seized by the Germans to be carted off for slave labour to Germany. One night, somewhere in the Ukraine, he jumped from the cattle-truck shunting him and other captives away from their homelands and fell into a field of sunflowers.

Soldiers in grey uniforms hunted him up and down the long lines of yellow sunflowers, but somehow he managed to elude them. I can still see in my mind those rows of strong, towering green stalks and leaves, great, yellow tangled- petalled heads benignly sheltering the fugitive crouched beneath.

I can never forget the endless fields of shimmering purple lupins alive with dancing blue butterflies, stretching along- side thousands of burnt -out tanks in post-war Germany just after the war. And I could never bear the pink rose bay willowherb, which grew on every English bomb site… the only plant that seemed to thrive in those derelict tragic places. They came to symbolise for me as a small girl, all the horror and sadness and destruction of the war I didn’t understand.

But perhaps the most powerful flower image of all, is that glorious girl on an American campus in the sixties, walking up to a row of armed, helmeted men, and tremblingly pushing a flower into the barrel of a gun pointed at her, her hand shaking slightly as she dared the outrageous. A girl and a flower speaking the in-effable language of peace.

Food for threadbare gourmets

Sometimes home-made mayonnaise can seem a bit heavy, but I use a quick and easy French recipe to lighten it up, learned from my French neighbour. After making the mayonnaise, beat the white of an egg until stiff, and then gently beat it into the freshly made mayonnaise. It gives it a lovely creamy texture, and is particularly good with fish like freshly poached salmon. Another variation is to use a clove of garlic when making the mayonnaise and then add finely chopped avocado with the egg- white. This is a good accompaniment to the chicken mousse from the last post.

Food for thought

That is at bottom the only courage that is demanded of us: to have courage for the most strange, the most singular and the most inexplicable that we may encounter. That mankind has in this sense been cowardly has done life endless harm; the experiences that are called ‘visions’, the whole so-called “spirit-world,” death, all those things that are so closely akin to us, have by daily parrying been so crowded out of life that the senses with which we could grasp them are atrophied. To say nothing of God. Rainer Maria Rilke 1875 – 1926 Austrian mystical poet

45 responses to “Poignant symbolism”

Just the other day I was thinking about the use of visual symbols, especially with the exponential growth of photography sharing, whether on Flickr, Instagram or Google +. It seems that we are using photos to express larger, deeper thoughts. Your post was a reminder that we cannot discount the power of symbolism in our lives – even the use of happy faces to finish our comments! 🙂 🙂 🙂

Valerie, what a beautiful post! I love flowers and have enjoyed them many places, foremost of which may be the spring wildflowers in the Big Horn Mountains of Wyoming, the glory of lavender in Provence and the beauty of the multiple poppies on my two plants at the house we sold recently. Although there are many beautiful flowers, hybridization has robbed many of them of the smell that should be an enhancement. But better scent-less flowers than none at all.

So glad you enjoyed the post, thank you so much … and what a lovely flowery comment Janet! You’re so right about the hybridization that’s robbed them of scent – and also stopped them self seeding which I love about flowers, so they spring up again the next year in all sorts of unexpected places… at least the lavender of Provence still has its perfume !!

One of my favourites…whether sung by Marlene Dietrich, Joan Baez or Peter Paul and Mary – and now I’m going to tune into Pete Seeger ( who I think I vaguely remember Mary of PP and her, laughingly accusing him of stealing it from them, and him sheepishly agreeing…)

I think your version with Pete Seeger beats them all, I’m feeling quite fragile, having listened to a whole raft of them , and that song really gets to me in the end.
It must have been another song that Mary accused someone else of stealing from them !

You’re right, for many of us, the carnations we buy in the supermarket symbolize capitalism and commercialism. And yet, the ones that grew in my mother’s garden will always be remembered for their fragrance of cinnamon and cloves. In China, the lotus has been the symbol of purity for hundreds of years because it rises from the muddy pond untainted and pure. The peony symbolizes nobility, female beauty and peace. (Lessons I learned when I was studying Chinese brush painting.)

I hadn’t heard the symbolism of the peony before. One of my very favourite flowers – how lovely, I love the juxtaposition of nobility, female beauty and peace…
flowers deserve a book, rather than a blog, I really feel !!
Thank you so much for your comments

Another tremendous post Valerie. Oddly enough I like daffodils but then if I didn’t it would almost be like treason for a Welshman.I love Poppies too as can be seen from my lounge wall decorations but they do remind me of Flanders field sometimes.But to be honest I’ve always had a soft spot for the anemone though I couldn’t put the reason into words. Perhaps I bought some for my Nana as a child and got a good reception though I know that would have been the same for a bunch of buttercups.
Sadly flowers seem to have lost much of their symbolism these days except for the red rose and love, perhaps they’d regain their popularity as the number one choice of gift if the meanings were shouted out again. Perhaps it’s time to design a poster for the florists window?
xxx Massive Hugs to you, I haven’t mastered smiley faces either xxx

David, lovely to hear from you… flowers certainly mean a lot to us, don’t they, even if we don’t know their meanings… actually I think a bunch of buttercups is one of the loveliest posies of all ! Glad someone else can’t do smiley faces ! – love Valerie

The symbolism of flowers is so personal and cultural at the same time. What an interesting piece, Valerie. In France, we offer each other a small bouquet of Lily-of-the-Valley on May 1 (they are sold on every street corner) and you are meant to offer a bouquet to everyone in your life. I would buy one for my elderly neighbor, the homeless man down the street, my parents. And return home with many little bouquets myself. So lovely.

Some years ago I was in the hospital with a lady who detested flowers. Whenever she’d receive a bouquet she gave it to me. You see, her father was a funeral director, so for her, flowers conjured dark memories.

A lovely piece! When I was at school, it was tradition to be given a red carnation to wear on speech days and prize-giving ceremonies – a century old custom that (I think) was a way of ensuring that everyone felt special whether they received a prize or not!

I so loved this post! I, too, felt the anguish and the guilt that your now feel looking back over the past, wishing somehow we could be grown-up enough to appreciate the gifts that come to us. The gifts that are right there, but we are afraid of what others might think.

Maybe it is something about getting older –when we look back we can see the gift that was there all along. And sometimes it is too late.

I buy myself flowers and recently was blessed with the gift of them when my heart was shattering in small pieces. I have always loved great huge Peony’s, coaxing them to open is one of my favorite things. Wonderful purple Hydrangea is also one of my favorite flowers to fill low bowls with and some day I will plant it when I can. But one of my favorite things of all was living in Singapore where Orchids grew everywhere and I could go to the flower market weekly and fill my basket with them for $25, every room in my house had cut flowers and my backyard had wild orchids as well.

You have reminded me of how wonderful it is to be surrounded by beauty.

Dear Val,
your flowers sound absolutely beautiful…we are alike, in that I adore peonies, and purply blue hydrangeas are flourishing under the trees in my garden now…I know how you feel about flowers when your heart is shattered, a few roses picked from the garden did the job for me when I was so dazed with pain I didn’t know if I’d survive !!!…I did of course !

Thank you for this, Valerie. As other of your readers have mentioned above, was fitting that you closed it with that image from the Vietnam War, and of course it evoked Pete Seeger. Oh, the fragility of flowers and oh, their persistence in the face of tragedy! Just like people.
I’ve fluctuated between loving flowers in vases–particularly little posies of wildflowers on my kitchen windowsill–and feeling somehow that it’s a travesty to pick them. But people have been growing and cutting flowers as long as we’ve loved beauty, and of course often, cutting flowers stimulates more flowers.
Now that my mother is quite old, nothing brings her pleasure as much as a beautiful bouquet of flowers–except babies, of course, and the actual presence of the person who sent the flowers, if that person is many miles across the seas.

Lovely to hear from you Josna, I know how you feel about picking flowers, I’m always torn between picking them and wanting them to be growing in my garden..
Posies of wild flowers on your kitchen window-sill sound enchanting…
And it’s such a contemplative thing to do… gently picking and mixing those delicate wild flowers and grasses… lovely…

When I was younger I never really appreciated flowers – as you say, I was used to seeing those dull carnations and daffodils – dull because they were so common. Flowers were the gift that mothers and aunties received, and weren’t for me. I rarely have cut flowers in the house – partly because when we had cats, they would eat them, but also because I feel a little sad about cutting them. But I appreciate flowers so much more these days – I can appreciate the beauty of all those ‘common’ flowers, like daffodils, but also the small, fragile wild flowers and the larger more cultivated ones.

Oh Valerie, I’ve missed reading your words. I prefer to set aside time for you, than speed read you between other things, because you always take me on a sensory walkabout. The smell of carnations reminds me of my grandmother, too! But I’m not a fan of cut flowers. Let them stay where they bloom, I say. I’ll have to look up that clip on Youtube… (and will be back to catch up on more soon…life has been keeping me away of late).